Aware, Beware of the Son and Daughter
by Sawlt to Your Suger
Summary: What happens when Nasuada visits Murtagh at Farthen Dur? Romance that will not last. “My name is Nasuada, I am Ajihad’s child. You are Morzan’s.” He is not what he seems. She is delighted. But kisses do not mean love, nor forever. They are quite aware.


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The idea came to me during lunch a few days ago while I was re-reading Eragon. (Brisingr is coming out soon!) In fact, I have quoted the portion that brought on the fanfiction here.

_**DISCLAIMER:** Paolini. Commenced highschool at the age of fifteen, and though not all of his ideas are exactly...erm...his own, _he's _the published author, and therefore owns all in relation to Eragon and the Inheritence Series (no longer Trilogy, I hear. Dang). I make no profit from this aside from the few reviews etcetc._

_The story begins with the excerpt from Eragon and then it begins. Yes. This is a Nasuada and Murtagh fanfiction. Slightly spoilers, but really only if you look really really hard...or you've already read Eldest. Which defeats the point. And, just for the record, I think Eragon is going to get with Nasuada, I just thought I'd write this anyway._

_Sensuality. Hence the T-rating._

_As always, I ask for a review._

_Enjoy._

_--Sawlt to Your Suger._

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"Nasuada said that she visited you. Did she say anything interesting?"

Murtagh's gaze shifted into the distance, and he shook his head. "No, she only wanted to see me. Doesn't she look like a princess? And the way she carries herself! When she first entered through that doorway, I thought she was one of the great ladies of Galbatorix's court. I've seen earls and counts who had wives that, compared to her, were more fitted for life as a hog than of nobility."

Eragon listened to his praise with growing apprehension. It may mean nothing, he reminded himself. You're leaping to conclusions. Yet the foreboding would not leave him.

Eragon (Christopher Paolini) pg 465-6

**Aware, Beware. The Son and Daughter.**

When her father told her that none other than the son of Morzan was locked away in the depths of Tronjheim, Nasuada did not expect to then be told that he was in one of the more comfortable cells, nor did she expect the man to be like he was.

She expected someone with a cruel glint in his eye, perhaps a limp, and a hobby of spitting or excess use of expletives. Instead of wearing the dagger outside of her dress, at her waist, as she normally did, she slid it between the folds at her thigh, hiding it. It was also easer to access there—but she kept it visible while within Farthen Dür. By wearing her piece openly, she showed trust and respect for those around her. But this foul beast? Perhaps there was need of alarm.

However, she was not greeted by anything or anyone she expected. Stepping into the room, just as nice as most of the cells like it—there for those who, like this prisoner, did not pose any obvious threat but were not yet accepted or trusted by the Varden—Nasuada first laid eyes on Murtagh.

If his stunningly handsome, respectable looks did not surprise her (though they did) his first words were enough to cause the daughter of Ajihad to reevaluate anything she ever thought about the prisoner, as well as the Foresworn.

Apart from his first, almost awestruck hesitation as he gazed upon her, he was quite prompt. "And who may I have the pleasure of addressing?" Not a word against the Varden, not a gesture or twitch betraying his feelings toward it or her, either.

"My name is Nasuada, I am Ajihad's child. You are Morzan's."

Had it been a question, the answer would have been obvious: yes.

The man's face hardened and he did not bother to reply. He was sitting on the edge of the chamber's bed, a book within reach of his right hand, his cloak hanging on a peg by the washbasin in the corner. He had removed his jerkin and was now wearing his tunic, trousers, and boots. When he stood, brushing dark hair from his face, Nasuada's hand went immediately behind her back, parting the folds in which she'd hidden her dagger.

"I do not mean to hurt you," he said, turning his back on her and walking toward the basin. The sound of disturbed water replaced the seconds. After a while, Nasuada made her way to the writing desk in the opposite corner, pulled the chair out with a slight scraping noise, but, at the last second, reminded herself who she was dealing with. Maybe he could disguise who he really was with etiquette and carefully chosen phrases, but she would not be fooled. She returned to her post at the door, leaning against it.

Murtagh finished rinsing his face and dried his hands. "Just because I am Morzan's son does not mean I wish it were so." Nasuada inclined her head.

"Just because you wish it were untrue does not mean that you are not the son of the first and last of the Foresworn—a traitorous man to say the least."

The son's sour laugh echoed in the cell, and for once the room revealed what it truly was: a confining space for an unwelcome someone. There were fine hangings and beautiful furniture, but it was still part of the prison.

Murtagh stepped forward, gliding across the room on his strong legs, stopping just short of the girl. She was young, but so was he, they couldn't have been more than a few years apart in age, though he guessed one at the most. Nasuada was thinking the same.

"I hope you don't mind, Lady Nasuada—may I call you that?" He interrupted himself for this, and she could not help but be softened a slight bit by it.

"What other name do I have? Yes, though formality does not suit our encounter."

"As I was saying, I hope you don't mind, but could you just say what you're here to say? I don't mean to be rude, but we're not even trying to beat around the bush with other conversation and I get enough silence in here without other people around me." He stared down at her, and she smirked back. Was he hoping she might move from the door? She would not—to put him between her and the only exit could be a grave mistake.

"There is nothing for me to say, only to do. I wished to meet you, to look upon you. To see the man who was born with Morzan's blood in his veins." Murtagh grunted and drew away, back to the bed. When he spoke, all possible friendliness in his voice had fled.

"Must you remind me with every thought you speak? Who am I to you? Morzan reincarnate? My name is Murtagh, I am Eragon the Rider's faithful friend, and I mean you, nor your people—the Varden, any harm. If all you want to do here is jeer at me for my unfortunate parentage, then you have done it thrice over. Leave." He did not look up, instead rubbing his chin on his shoulder and clenching his jaw. Nasuada took a breath and slowly, ever so slowly, walked deeper into the room.

"I am sorry, then, for my lack of manners, I did not mean to induce such feelings." She was about an arm's breadth away from him now. For a moment, they did nothing, until she reached behind her back again. Murtagh started, but she held up her arm, nearly touching him with thin, clean fingers. She withdrew the long dagger, and lowered it to the floor. Another part of her told her to pick it up, to leave; he was in a bad mood (one that she had brought on), it would be best to take his advice. But she stayed, pulling herself back up to her full height. The blade rested on the ground between them, glinting in the lamp light.

"Hah," Murtagh said, looking at the dagger in front of him, then to its owner, "it is no matter. If I really wanted to fight you, I could defeat you even if you had that silly butter knife." The anger in his voice had dissipated, but it still remained in his eyes.

"Then you underestimate me," Nasuada began, but changed her course as she spoke, "but this is not about who can win. This is about trust. And I trust that you will not attack me, and hope that you realize that I have no plans of attacking you."

"As I have said, I mean you no harm."

Secretly, she had hoped he would be like this—completely unlike his father in any way. Proof that even good could come from evil; that not everyone followed in the paths of those before them. She smiled warmly, finally relaxing, and touched his shoulder. For a single, long second, she felt him almost melt beneath her calloused palm, but he shrugged her hand away after that. It was long enough, however, to stir her into her next action.

She carefully stepped over the knife and kneeled before him—not in a bow, no, but simply on one knee, looking up in to his eyes. She raised her hand and watched his gaze follow it as she brought it down to his inner thigh. This time he was tense.

"Why?" Murtagh asked, twining a short strand of her hair on one of his fingers, before caressing her ear and cheek. Nasuada shook her head, she did not know the answer, but it felt right. It felt more than right. It was thrilling.

With a whirl of movement, she stood again and quickly straddled his hips, her hands clasping his head and bringing her own down to meet his.

There are too many clichés to describe the moment their lips met—but few of them are true. There were no explosions of light behind their eyelids at the pleasure they felt, nor were they sure they'd found a soul mate in the other. True love? Out of the question. But pleasure, yes, there was much of it as they kissed.

Murtagh slid his fingers along the soft cloth over her back, half wishing to remove it. He felt Nasuada shudder as he echoed her fervent moans and pressed against her with matching ardor. No clothes were shed, nor virginities broken, simply one long kiss, on the edge of a particularly comfortable prisoner's bed.

At some point, Murtagh realized what he was doing, and pulled away, though the woman leaned forward, eagerly nipping at his lips, pushing him down. Though she was lying atop obvious desire, there seemed a silent agreement—this was as far as they would go. However, that did not mean they ought to stop, and she bore down upon him again. He held a hand against her bosom. Both were secretly surprised by how little they minded this interruption.

After more silence, during which Murtagh removed his hand, Nasuada slid from his legs, lying beside him instead, still perpendicular to the bed. Hesitantly, he put an arm around her.

"I didn't mean to," she said, peering up at him from his chest. He chuckled quietly.

"I am aware."

"If—if you don't mind," she suddenly seemed shy, quite unlike the woman he'd been dealing with earlier. "May I see your scar?"

"If you really want to see it so badly," he replied, sitting up, "couldn't you just order me to show it to you?"

"Probably. Though you are not a member of the Varden. Still, you _are_ a prisoner." She laughed. The confidence was back. "But I thought I'd ask permission."

"A little late to be asking permission about things, don't you think, Nasuada?" He removed his shirt quickly, and pressed his lips against hers. The shirt fell somewhere, useless on the floor. They tussled on the bed again, until Nasuada dropped against the pillows, out of breath. Murtagh pulled away and turned, baring his scar to her bright, intelligent eyes. These eyes flashed with sorrow as they took in the sight of the long, red gash. The silence returned.

Murtagh could not suppress the loud moan that suddenly raced from his lips when he felt Nasuada's hands on his back. A massage—something he hadn't had in years. A simple delight that most take for granted. He had no loved ones to ask for one, and when news of Morzan's scarred son reached the public's ears, Murtagh knew he'd likely never feel another's fingers on his back again. But it wasn't just her fingers, no, her mouth too, and a skilled and slight tongue. He shivered.

She sat up, trailing that piece of muscle up his neck and then withdrawing it, so that she could bend her head around his cheek and kiss the corner of his mouth. And when he turned his head, to kiss him, again, full on the lips.

"Murtagh," she whispered, and he finally understood the strange knotting in his gut—she had not said his name until then, and when she did, it was beautiful. No trace or hint of hate, of doubt—though she knew him for who he was. Yes. Morzan's son. But no, when she spoke his name, it was as though she had forgotten. He was his own person, for once. His own person nearly naked before her—and she accepted him.

But it would not last. It couldn't. Perhaps she saw him one way, but her opinion would not change hundreds—thousands of others. And he had other things more important than wooing the daughter of the Varden's leader. She was Ajihad's offspring. He was Morzan's—he might as well have been Galbatorix's. Even if Murtagh had opened his mind to the Twins, and been given the protection of the Varden, he was _still_ Morzan's child. The scar still ripped his back. Had they loved each other, perhaps there might have been a chance. But a spare and precious few minutes never quite add up to love. This would not last and she was just as conscious of it as he.

The sigh that parted his lips caused her to release him, and watch his face carefully.

"Then you know that there will be no sequel to this story?" He met her eyes as she asked the question clearly, without regret.

"I am aware," he replied, kissing her cheek gently, and standing to retrieve his tunic.

"If there is, I dare say it shall not be a happy one," Nasuada added as an afterthought, watching the scar disappear beneath burgundy cloth.

"Is there no hope?" He was quite sure that the answer was no; didn't really want or need the confirmation that there was no reason to even _dream_ of there being a second time. But he still voiced the words aloud, and the thoughts of the woman he had been kissing mirrored his, though he would never know it.

"Nay."

She stood from the bed and took up her dagger again. Sliding it back into its hidden sheath, she listened to it clink into place.

Murtagh came forward, walking with her as she strode to the door. When they reached it, they both turned to face each other. Nasuada put a hand on Murtagh's shoulder again, but did not feel the same relaxation of his muscles under her touch. She nodded at him.

"I hope to speak with you again, Murtagh, son of Morzan."

The son shook his head. He was still the son. He would _always_ be the son.

"And I, you, Lady Nasuada." Murtagh bowed his head slightly, but she slipped her palm around his chin.

"You need not bow to me. What prisoner bows to his captor, unless forced? You are not under our direct jurisdiction, and I see that you would like it to stay that way. You deny the Varden entrance to your mind. You are not but a shadow to us—save for your ancestry, which you assure me relates nothing to who you _are_. Murtagh, you stand alone, under your own guidance."

"Perhaps my guidance requires I bow to you. In memory of this. Of the short existence of us. Please tell me that at least to _you_, I am more than a shadow and more than the son." He bent down to kiss her again, but she smirked and pressed her palm against his cheek, preventing him from reaching her.

"To my head you are nothing more. To my heart? I do not know. Let me tell you, Murtagh—you say you are aware—but I will remind you. There will be no more of this. As for love? Well, there was no _us_. Good-bye."

Against her better judgment, Nasuada raised herself up to met his lips a final time with her own. But, in the last second, she freed his face from her hand and slipped from the cell, kiss-less once again.

Murtagh shrugged and returned to his bed. Once he was free of this place, she would be the last thing on his mind. As for now, however, cooped up and alone? Now he was painfully aware of how he would _never_ reveal his thoughts to the Varden. However, despite what Nasuada might hope as she walked quickly away, Murtagh had many other important reasons to keep his thoughts a secret. Reasons more important than the moment he had just shared with her.

_fin._

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_Ehh? What says you, reader?_

_Strange pairing. I am aware. xD_


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